Coffee Break
by Amos Whirly
Summary: Jack Bauer and John McClane run into each other at a diner in New York City and have a little chat about daughters. Told from John McClane's POV.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters in the following fanfiction, and I'm not making any money off of this. This was just a really weird and random idea that struck me when I was really needing a break from the heavy action in _Blood Trust_, and I wanted to see if I could make it work.

**Coffee Break  
**by Amos Whirly

John McClane, fifty-four years old, sat quietly in the booth at Tony's Diner, half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. The smell of hamburger grease had filled the place up, and he imagined it would be hell to try to scrub the residue off the bar at closing time.

There were a few other customers around the joint, which he had already taken the time to evaluate. A couple in the corner, holding hands and talking quietly. They were really dressed too nice to be hanging around a greasy spoon like Tony's, so McClane figured they hadn't known what they were walking into. Some fat-ass sat at the bar taking giant bites of cherry pie and not noticing that half of it was spilling on his shirt. A man in the back corner booth bowed over a steaming mug, eyes closed and fingers laced together. The dude looked tired, like he'd had a hell of a bad day—or maybe even a string of them.

His favorite waitress, Gina, hustled out of the kitchen with two plates balanced on one arm, two mugs on two fingers, and a pot of coffee in the other.

"Heya, John," she smirked at him, crooked teeth apparent behind her painted lips. "Tony threw a few extra fries on 'em just for you."

"Thanks, Gina."

"When's she gonna' be here?"

"She'll be here."

Gina set the plates down, one in front of him and the other across from him. Just plain old bacon cheeseburgers and fries, Tony's specialties. She filled up the mugs with hot, black coffee, and McClane put out his cigarette. He checked his watch as Gina dashed back behind the bar to get Mr. Fat-Ass another piece of pie.

She was late. Really late.

But before he could reach for his cell phone, the diner door rang out, the bell over the top clanging loud enough to catch everybody's attention.

She took his breath away. Seriously. She looked like her mother. All that red hair and the attitude and the sharp-knuckled fists he never wanted to get on the wrong side of. His daughter Lucy was a sight to behold even in blue jeans and a paint-splattered t-shirt.

She waved at him and started toward the corner booth.

McClane couldn't resist a cursory glance around the diner to make sure no one was staring longer than they should have. The snazzy couple in the corner were still holding hands. Mr. Fat-Ass was chin deep in another slice of cherry pie.

But the dude in the back corner booth was staring. Not openly. Just watching with interest. McClane noted the man had blue eyes. Even from here he could see them. And blonde hair. He guessed the man was probably in his forties, but something in his carefully guarded expression made him seem far older.

Lucy crossed his vision and sat down in front of him. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, sweetie. Where were you? You're late."

"Dad, you don't need to worry about me."

McClane chose not to respond to that. Of course he needed to worry about her. She was his daughter. She could get into all sorts of trouble with little or no effort on her part. The fact that she _was _his daughter was reason enough for half the creeps in New York City to want her dead.

He glanced back at the dude in the back corner booth. He'd gone back to bowing over his mug. Maybe he was drunk. Was he shaking?

"Dad!"

McClane glanced at his daughter who was staring at him openly. "What, sweetheart?"

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Of course, I did."

"So you're fine with it?"

McClane scowled. He hated when she did this. Acted like she'd said something important and then played the martyr card when he hadn't heard her. He'd begun to suspect that she did it on purpose, that she was able to tell when he wasn't paying attention and then played her old man for a fool to get her way. He wouldn't put it past her. And it both irritated him and made him glow with pride. Not too many people could pull the wool over John McClane's eyes and live to talk about it.

"You _didn't _hear a word I said, Dad. You're not paying any attention."

"I'm listening."

"What are you looking for? A terrorist? A bank robber? A computer nerd bent on world domination?"

"That's really funny, Lucy." He took a swig of his coffee. "What'd you say?"

"Matthew asked me to come over tonight."

McClane felt his eyebrow twitch. He set his coffee down and ran his hand over his head, absently wondering when he'd lost all his hair.

"You didn't say anything about Farrell."

"I did too. You just weren't listening."

"Geez, Lucy. You're killing me."

"Matthew asked me to come over, and I want to go."

"I thought we were having coffee. I thought we were going to eat dinner like a family for once, and you were gonna' tell me what was going on with you. I never talk to you anymore."

"That's because half the time I'm pissed off at you, Lieutenant."

McClane chuckled softly, half because she reminded him so much of himself and half because he knew she'd already won. There wasn't much she could ask for that he wouldn't give her. Although going over to see Matthew Farrell might have been pushing it.

"When are we going to have coffee then, Lucy?"

Lucy sighed. "Dad, I don't drink coffee."

"Since when?"

"Since—forever?"

Lucy started off on something again, but McClane didn't hear her. His eyes had shifted to the man in the back corner booth again. The man was staring. The expression on his face was blank, though, almost detached. Totally not engaged. Maybe he _was _drunk. The man's blue eyes shifted, as though he realized he was staring. Slowly, he turned his attention back to the cup of coffee (it wasn't steaming anymore) in front of him.

Maybe it wasn't a good night for Lucy to be out.

"Yeah, fine," McClane said.

"Fine what, Dad?"

"Go see Farrell."

Lucy rolled her eyes, and McClane got the distinct feeling that she had moved on to a different topic.

"What do you drink then?" he asked.

"Tea."

"Tea? Lucy, what the hell?"

"I drink tea. And there's a nice tea house down the street from my studio. So let's give that a try."

"You'll kill me, Lucy."

"You've been through tougher stuff than a tea house, Daddy. You'll live."

She slid out of the booth and planted a gentle kiss on the crown of his bald head. It still made him smile, but he couldn't stop himself. "You better not have that damned lip gloss on. I don't want glitter on my head, Lucy."

She winked at him and bustled toward the door.

"Tell Farrell I'll shoot him if he tries something."

She glared back at him with the expression that only a daughter can give her father. "He already knows, Daddy."

She ducked out of the door and was gone down the street. McClane looked toward the back booth again. This time the man hadn't moved, hadn't budged, hadn't even glanced up.

Gina came out to refill his cup again and started chattering about how grown up Lucy looked, but John didn't pay any attention. The longer he stared at the man in the back corner booth, the more suspicious he became.

The man was too still. He wasn't drunk, even though McClane was sure he'd seen him shaking earlier. He wasn't high; no fidgeting or squirming. He was still and silent as a statue.

McClane didn't like him, and he didn't like the way he'd been staring at Lucy.

McClane sighed hugely and stood up, feeling the weight of his piece in its holster. He grabbed his cup of coffee and started toward the man in the back corner booth.

The closer he came, the tenser the man in the booth seemed to get. McClane could trace the ever-straightening line of the man's shoulders and back, but the rest of him didn't move. His fingers were loose, laced together in front of his cup. His eyes were half-lidded, staring into the mug. His blonde hair might have had some gray in it, but McClane couldn't be sure. Blondes aged so much slower than brunettes or redheads.

Lights from a passing car illuminated the shape of the man's fingernails. Blunted from wear and use. McClane could see scars beneath the man's shirt cuffs.

If McClane hadn't known better, he might have thought the man was sleeping. Or dead. But the man was alert, ready to bolt or shoot or _something_.

McClane stopped next to the booth and set his mug on the table, sliding it so that it stopped across the table from the other man's mug. The silent man was still a statue.

Alarms were ringing in the back of McClane's mind. There was something seriously wrong with this man. "You got some kind of problem, buddy?"

Finally. Movement. The man's right hand twitched just barely.

"No. No problem at all."

The man's voice was deep and husky sounding, oddly rough and gentle at the same time. McClane was fairly certain the man sounded amused about something.

"Good," McClane said. "'Cause I would hate for there to have to be a problem."

Slowly, the man lifted his eyes. His mouth quirked in a half smile. "There's no problem, officer. Your—Your daughter just reminded me of someone." His eyes flickered back to his mug. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Who said I was worried?"

The man flashed another half smile that didn't reach his eyes.

McClane leaned back in the booth and regarded the other man for a moment. He hadn't relaxed. The line of his shoulders was still square, but closer now McClane could trace the muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"You're a father," the man said. "It's part of your job."

McClane chuckled and drained the last of his coffee. He set the mug on the edge of the table and narrowed his eyes at the younger man.

"You have a daughter?"

The man hesitated for a brief moment. "Had."

McClane winced. "Sorry to hear that. How'd she die?"

The man turned the mug around in his fingers for a moment before he smiled sadly. "She didn't die. I did." Before McClane could ask for clarification, the man continued. "She's—not very happy with me at the moment. I saw you with your daughter, and I—remembered what it was like to be a father."

McClane scoffed quietly and rubbed at his head before he waved at Gina. She bustled over and filled his mug up.

"You want a warm-up?" McClane asked.

"No. Thank you."

"Whatever that was you were drinking, son, it's cold now. Best get a refill while I'm in the mood to pay for it."

The man hesitated for a brief moment but finally relented and allowed Gina to bring another mug and fill it up with coffee.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't mention it," McClane said. He lifted his head. "Name's John McClane. Who are you?"

"Jack."

"Jack," McClane repeated. "What do you do, Jack?"

Again, the half smile. "I'm—in between jobs right now. And you're a cop. NYPD?"

"Good guess."

"Your piece is obvious."

"Why hide?"

McClane drank his coffee and noted that Jack didn't, but he didn't ask. Maybe it was a personality quirk to order coffee and not drink it, but McClane hated to see good coffee go to waste.

"You've got good instincts," Jack commented absently.

McClane hadn't really been expecting it and wasn't sure what to say. He stammered around a bit before he managed to string a sentence together. "When you're on the force as long as I've been and when you've done the shit I've done, you learn how to spot the weirdos."

"And how to spot the ones who mean real harm."

"Right." McClane narrowed his eyes. "Are you a cop?"

Jack paused. "I do jobs for the government."

McClane immediately felt that Jack and his peculiar behavior made a lot more sense all of a sudden. "What kind of jobs?"

"All kinds of jobs."

"Bet that sucks."

"I have good days and bad days."

"Which one is this?"

Jack cocked an eyebrow, not sure what McClane was getting at.

"Is this a good day or a bad day?" McClane clarified.

Without blinking, Jack checked his watch. McClane watched the cuff of his sleeve pull up and tried not to stare at the scares that crisscrossed his forearm.

"Day's almost over," Jack said. "Nobody I know has died or been kidnapped. The president's still alive. No nukes are missing, all biological weapons are accounted for, and the terrorist alert level is decreased. So—yes, this has been a good day."

"Geez, what do your bad days look like?" McClane sipped his coffee.

"You don't want to know." Jack turned his mug around once more, and he moved to slide off the bench. "I'm sorry to cut this short."

"What? You're leaving already?"

"I can't stop moving. I appreciate the talk, and I am sorry for worrying you." Jack stood to his feet. "You have a very beautiful daughter."

McClane admitted being surprised when Jack stood up. He wasn't quite six feet tall, and his build looked more slender than it had when he was sitting down. With the blonde hair and the quirky half smile, he looked like the type of guy who could probably blend in anywhere. Except for his eyes. McClane had decided really quickly that Jack wasn't nearly old enough to have eyes like that. Eyes that had seen too much pain.

"Thank you. For the coffee."

"You didn't drink it."

"No, I didn't."

"What's the point of ordering coffee if you're not going to drink it?"

"I like the smell." Jack smiled again. "Have a nice evening." He started for the door.

"Hey, Jack."

The man stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Your daughter. She's still breathing?"

"Last I checked?"

McClane smiled and nodded, draining the last of his coffee. "Give her time. She'll come around. Lucy did."

Jack turned his head around a little more, and McClane could see, for the first time, something sparkling in the depths of the man's blue eyes. "I hope you're right, McClane."

"Always am."

Jack turned and stepped out the door, and McClane lost track of him in the night. Gina came to fill his coffee again, which he accepted without comment, but before he drank it, he took a moment to enjoy its brown, earthy scent.

It did smell good.


End file.
